He jogged back down the stairs with my phone and shoes in his hand. “Where’s your mom? I thought she was going to be taking care of you after the surgery.”
“A friend broke her hip, so she had to go visit her in the hospital.” I folded my arms over my chest. My long sleeves covering all but the tips of my fingers. “She’ll be back in a little bit.”
LJ had a bad case of white knight syndrome. He was always the first to try to swoop in and save someone. Sometimes, it led to things like his dad’s bone marrow drive, other times it led to him badgering me to get in touch with Ron or have a heart to heart with my mom about my feelings, and the flames of those two attempts still licked at the edges of my heart. So no, he didn’t need to know my mom was out getting bombed somewhere with some guy she probably barely knew.
LJ would probably show up with a full list of rehabs and family therapists, but people could only be helped if they thought there was a problem. In my mom’s eyes, her only problem was leaving for New York in less than a couple months.
“Cool, let her know where you are.” He handed over my phone. “Did you want pants or are you good in those?”
I lifted an eyebrow. “How long have you known me?”
He handed over my sneakers and held up his hands. “I’ll never get how your arms and hands are like ice blocks, but your legs are a furnace. Are you sure you weren’t pieced together in Frankenstein’s lab?” He shot his arms out in front of him imitating a reanimated corpse.
“Maybe I was.” I did the Frankenstein’s monster walk right alongside him, but mine was more convincing since the pain meds hadn’t kicked in yet.
“We’re already off to a good start. Come on, let’s go.”
He hurried me out the door and I didn’t protest nearly as much as I normally would’ve because right now, choosing between going anywhere with LJ and staying stuck in my house alone with my barren cabinets was a no-brainer.
Opening his car door like he always did, he kept tight-lipped through all my questions.
“What do you have planned?”
He turned on the car and headed toward his house. “I’ve had a lot of thinking time being cooped up in the hospital. Contrary to what you might think, it’s not a non-stop party in there.” He winked, still smiling. It hadn’t faltered since he walked inside.
The relief of the transplant being over had lifted a weight he’d been carrying for a long time. The whole family had. When we’d done the bone marrow testing drive at school, we’d hoped to get more people into the registry. A match was a pipe dream. Helping LJ coordinate it had been easy—anything for Charlie. When the news that I was the person they’d been looking for came, all eyes were glued on me.
For the past month, while Charlie had undergone chemo and we’d sorted through all the insurance red tape, everyone kept watching me. They’d whisper when LJ and I walked past in the hallways, or they’d ask tons of questions about the procedure and complications and what would happen to Charlie after.
At least now it was over. The school year would be finished in a couple weeks and we’d have the summer before college started. Before LJ and I would be going our separate ways. He’d be going to Fulton U and I’d chosen a school in New York.
The art history program there was one of the best in the world, right along with the price tag, but the scholarships and financial aid forms, which I’d had to fill out myself by digging through my mom’s tax forms, would get me there. And the museums. I could spend the rest of my life and still not see every piece of art housed in all the collections in the city.
Art had always been an escape for me. I could check out books from the library and pretend I was a Renaissance woman who was a muse for a famous painter. Or imagine what it would be like to sit beside the lake covered in water lilies. Once I could take the train, I’d spent a lot of time in museums in the city. I was under twelve way into my teens for the free admission. Sitting and watching the paintings, and how people reacted to them and the other artwork. I’d try to imagine their lives, making up stories about where they were coming from or going.
Hiding out at the museum had helped when I didn’t want to overstay my welcome with LJ’s family. It was quiet, not too crowded, the perfect temperature and no one bothered me if I was there for hours. My escape to art became a love I couldn’t deny.
We pulled up to LJ’s house, where Mickey Mouse-shaped balloons arched around their doorway and floated from the railings leading up to their porch, swaying in the gentle breeze.
“How did you do all this?”
His eyes crinkled and he jumped out of the car before sliding over the hood and opening mine.
I stared at him, wanting to rub my eyes to make sure it was all real.
He held out his hand and I took it, gritting my teeth as I shoved out of the low bucket seat.
We walked up the driveway, which was lined with cut outs of the mouse silhouette on popsicle sticks shoved into the ground.
“Seriously? How did you pull this off?”
“You ain’t seen nothing yet.” He took my hand.
Electric sparks traveled from my fingers and wrapped around my heart.
We walked to the porch, hand in hand, all my aches and pains washed away with a single touch. My body tingled and blood pounded in my ears.
His fingers tightened around mine as we walked up the solid steps. He opened the door and I gasped, covering my mouth with one hand, still keeping my fingers intertwined with his.
“Oh my god.”
4
LJ
PRESENT
A sharp pain jabbed me in my ribs, and I fought against my smile, keeping my face lax as the weight shifted beside me. It had been three weeks since Marisa moved into my house—into my bed.
Liv had shown up at The Brothel a few days after the fire, cursing Ford’s name and swearing to Marisa that she would exact a vivid and slightly disturbing torture on him for whatever he’d done.
After a couple weeks of the two of them living on ice cream and mixed drinks, Liv had packed up her things, bought us a few cases of beer as a thank you, and practically floated out the door under the watchful gaze of her no-longer-broken-up-with boyfriend, so there was another sleeping option for Marisa—or me. But we kept sharing my bed. Lying next to her each night, I fought to keep my hands to acceptable points of contact like a brush against her back or arm.
Sleep also gave me a level of plausible deniability about the morning wood tenting my sweatpants. That had been much harder to control.
On my side, under the blankets with my back resting against the wall, I kept my hands in front of my face.
Her hair brushed over the back of my fingers, tickling them.
I shifted a finger, letting the strands slide against my skin. This close, her French toast smell invaded my lungs. Not the baked dessert, but the cereal. No one should ever let her anywhere near their stove or oven.
More hair brushed over my hands. Next the tickle moved to my neck and chin.
I wanted to slide my arm under her head and hold her against my chest. I wanted to trace my thumb down the curve of her neck. I wanted to taste her lips.
Having her this close for the past few weeks and having to keep myself under control had been one of the hardest things I’d ever done. After nearly losing her, I wasn’t going to do anything to freak her out.